


Magical Creatures

by anachronism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Werewolf Culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 21:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5981989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anachronism/pseuds/anachronism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They run into each other in Knockturn Alley. Remus’ eyes glow with a dim golden sheen in the faint light. The young man’s eyes burn a frigid ice-blue in response.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magical Creatures

They run into each other in Knockturn Alley. Remus’ eyes glow with a dim golden sheen in the faint light. The young man’s eyes burn a frigid ice-blue in response.

Remus stops in his tracks. The young man stalks by, purpose in each of his steps and a healthy glow to his skin that Remus is unused to seeing in others of his kind. He’s dressed well, too, if in the muggle fashion, casually opposing the stereotypical, downtrodden and oppressed image that clings to werewolves like a stubborn parasite.

Remus is supposed to be heading back to Grimmauld Place. Three meters to his left, Diagon Alley beckons with its warm light and busy chatter. He thinks of The Leaky Cauldron, with its comforting atmosphere and roaring fire, the revolving host of magical creatures that wander through, running to and from Magical London. There’s a counter with a butterbeer and a barstool with his name on it, just waiting for him to show up.

He turns away from the light, and follows the young man back down the way he had just come.

There’s a building on the left, with a sagging storefront and a roof still dripping water from yesterday’s rain. There’s no sign anywhere out front, but the window is obscured with stacks of texts and the young man pulls the door open in a way that suggests he’s familiar with the place. Remus heads in after him.

It’s an eclectic bookstore that Remus is passingly familiar with. The proprietor stocks everything and anything that isn’t new, even if the book has only been read once. There’s an attempt at organization. Shelves of books line the walls and stand in uniform rows, much like a library. Unlike a library, there are stacks of books growing from the floor, like paper stalagmites, some even as tall as Remus himself. Most of the towers of books are stacked haphazardly, leaning more precariously the higher they climb.

It’s disorienting to peer down the rows and realize that the store is _much_ larger on the inside than the outside would suggest. Remus knows from experience that the farther you go, the more dangerous the books become, and not just in the academic sense. There’s a collection of trunks down a ways that are constantly rattling and chained tightly shut. And there’s a nook with an invisible magic barrier that contains a few dozen books that refuse to be pinned down as they soar about like birds. Then there’s the room with the steel door with voices that groan ominously behind it any time someone walks by.

There’s one oasis of calm amidst the chaos. The sales register is a glass display, with velvet draped over the shelving and wooden book holders that prop up title-less tomes and magically saturated paper. Small pieces of folded cardstock have handwritten prices beneath each selection, all of which appear to be heinously expensive. A small sign behind the shopkeeper announces: _Barter Acceptable – Inquire for More Details._

The man doesn’t bother to browse the store. He goes to the register directly. Remus drifts toward a section he knows contains books on defense and relegates half his attention to search for something new and inexpensive.

“Another bestiary for you today Mr. Whittemore?”

Whittemore leans on the glass display casually, conspiratorially. “I’m after something special today Sean.”

Sean’s eyes glitter in amusement. “Oh?”

“A friend of mine has a birthday coming up. A very good friend of mine.”

Sean’s expression turns sharp, calculating.

“So I brought something special, for the occasion.” Whittemore pulls a crystal vial out of his jacket pocket and sets it gently on the counter. It’s full of a clear liquid of indeterminate origin, unimpressive out of context, but one doesn’t bring unimpressive items to barter with in Knockturn Alley. “Kanima venom. Eight ounces.”

Remus pauses with a worn paperback in hand.

“Well,” Sean practically purrs. “What sort of reading preference does your friend have?”

Whittemore doesn’t say anything. Instead, he taps on the glass counter, directly above one of the books set up for careful display.

For a moment, there is silence.

“Your friend must mean a lot to you, if you’re willing to bargain for such a thing.”

“It’s a good deal,” Whittemore says candidly. “How long has that book been sitting here?”

“Gong on ten years Mr. Whittemore, and I’ve yet to find a wizard I’m willing to sell it to.”

Whittemore spreads his arms wide. “I’m not a wizard.”

“I hear that from a lot of necromancers.”

“I’m not a necromancer either.

“ _That_ is undoubtedly the truth.”

“Haven’t got a drop of magic in me. Honest.”

“Of course not,” Sean says amiably, “you’re just a werewolf.”

Whittemore grins, but it looks less like a smile and more like a barring of teeth. “Have you ever seen me use a wand?”

“Not a lot of cause for people to be using wands in a bookstore.”

“You’re ridiculously paranoid.”

“And I’m still alive. It’s worked out well for me.”

Having reached a standstill, they stare each other down.

Whittemore huffs a frustrated breath. “What’s the point in showing it if you’re not going to sell it?”

“What do you want it for?”

“I already told you.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?”

Whittemore reaches into his pocket again and slowly draws out another vial, a perfect match to the one already sitting on the counter. He smirks a little at the way Sean’s eye widens. “I don’t think trust has anything to do with it.”

Sean’s eyes dart between the two vials, resolve visibly wavering. He then gathers himself up again.

“Why do you care what happens to it?” Whittemore asks.

“… There’s been rumors.”

“Of?” Whittemore prods gently.

Remus shifts a small stack of books out of his way, straining his ears, though it’s no hardship to hear the conversation. His hearing is better than most humans’ after all.

“The Dark Lord,” Sean whispers.

Whittemore scoffs. “Been reading the Daily Prophet, have you?”

“ _Real_ rumors.”

For a moment, Whittemore looks surprised. Then he huffs. “Fine. Whatever. What’s this got to do with the book?”

“In the wrong hands, it could do some real damage.”

“Well, obviously.”

“I won’t be a party to that.”

Whittemore pushes himself up to his full height, expression suddenly cool. “We’ve known each other for a while now, haven’t we?”

Sean doesn’t quite look him in the eye. “I know that when you shift, your eyes turn blue.”

As if to punctuate the point, Whittemore’s eyes once again light up with power. Remus glances at the door, weighing his chances of avoiding confrontation. Sean’s arm drifts toward his pocket.

Whittemore takes the two crystal vials and stows them back in his jacket. “I see. It’s clear that I’m wasting my time here.”

“Mr. Whittemore,” Sean protests.

Whittemore ignores him, turns, and walks out of the shop. The door closes behind him with an air of finality that Remus is sure isn’t wholly imagined.

Sean sighs, hand falling away from his pocket. He absently runs his fingers through his hair, and smiles a little when he notices Remus watching him. “Is there anything I can help you find today Mr. Lupin?”

“No thank you Sean. I’m just looking.”

“Right. Well, you let me know.”

Remus nods. He doesn’t mention that he’s not sure what he’s looking for, and whether or not the answers can be found in a bookstore. He followed Whittemore here without a particular motive, other than curiosity.

He’s still curious, he realizes. For all that Remus has been a werewolf most of his life, he’s always lived amongst wizards. He was raised by them, he went to school with them, and he studied lycanthropy from their perspective.

He’s met others like him, of course, but as a general rule, they were all wizards who were turned later in life – adults whose lives had suddenly been interrupted.

Even hags and centaurs practice their own brand of magic. He’s never met a magical creature who freely admitted their _inability_ to do so.

“Actually, do you have anything on werewolves? Anything accurate, I mean.”

Sean seems glad to have a task to devote his attention to. “You’ll be wanting something written by a werewolf then. There are a few I think you’ll like, out of print these days of course. I think publishers considered them something of a novelty when they first started appearing on shelves.”

-

He hasn’t budgeted spending money for books this month, but Remus finds himself in possession of three like-new hardcovers when he steps out of Knockturn Alley. Two of them are autobiographies, the third is a collection of interviews with werewolves written by a journalist who, Remus is told, no longer has her job.

The public library doesn’t carry books like these. Sean told him that only a few hundred of each had ever been printed. Most copies had been seized by the ministry.

These books have been banned.

He figures he can always buy new robes next month.

The day is winding down, and Diagon Alley is no longer as crowded as it used to be. The afternoon press of people has thinned out to a slow trickle as restaurants slowly fill their tables to capacity. The aroma of freshly-prepared food wafts into the alley.

Molly Weasley is back at Grimmauld Place, generously donating her culinary skills to the Order; but Remus can’t quite stomach the thought of returning to a place so saturated with dark magic with an overbearing gloomy atmosphere. With a silent apology to Sirius, Remus slips into The Leaky Cauldron, not to head out to Muggle London, but to settle down for a meal in a brightly-lit room.

It’s noisier than he usually prefers, and more crowded, but a vacancy opens up at the bar as soon as he walks in and he slides into the seat before anyone else makes a move for it.

“Your usual Remus?”

“Thank you Tom,” he nods.

A voice to his right chuckles softly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were following me.”

Remus blinks. He hadn’t recognized Whittemore from behind, though he thinks he should have. In a room full of color and magic he still stands out as the best-dressed in muggle fashion. He’s cradling a firewhisky in one hand and leveraging a truly impressive eyebrow in Remus’ direction.

“Mr. Whittemore, was it?”

“Jackson.”

“Right, Jackson. Sorry, didn’t see you there.”

“Obviously.” Jackson’s lips quirk upward. “I’d give you a hard time about it, but you smell kind of sick. If your senses are that out of whack you should probably see a doctor.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You know. A doctor? You magic people have those don’t you? People to go to when you’re ill.”

“I _smell_ sick? What does that mean?”

“You,” Jackson punctuates the word by pointing in Remus’ direction with his fork, “smell like _eau de aconitum_. It’s faint I’ll grant you, but it really isn’t doing your complexion any favors.” He pauses. “You don’t have anyone in your life that would try to kill you off by poisoning you slowly, do you? Because if you haven’t noticed the effects, you have a serious problem.”

“No,” Remus says, even as his thoughts drift to Severus, “I don’t.”

Jackson shrugs like he can tell that Remus isn’t telling the whole truth, but doesn’t say anything because he’s decided it’s not his business. “Whatever man. I’ve performed my civic duty.”

“Aconitum,” Remus murmurs to himself. “You mean wolfsbane?”

“Well. Duh.”

Tom delivers Remus’ food, and he begins eating automatically. His fingers skim over the covers of his newly acquired books. “I take a potion every day. One of its key ingredients is wolfsbane. You’re telling me you can smell it?”

Jackson frowns at him. “You poison yourself voluntarily every day? Christ. _What for_?”

Remus stares at him. “To help with the transformation. Why, what do you do?”

Jackson bristles. “Look, whoever you are –”

“Remus,” he interjects apologetically, because where had he left his manners?

“I’m not new alright? I know how to control the shift.”

Remus’ mind takes a minute to let that statement sink in. This man – Jackson – knows how to control the transformation?

He wonders if that means everything he thinks it does.

“Bit of advice, man? You might want to find yourself a new alpha if yours thinks that poisoning his betas is the best way to teach them control.”

“My – what?”

Jackson gives him an odd look. “Person in charge of your pack?” he says slowly. “Man or woman who bit and then turned you? Am I ringing _any_ bells here?”

Remus carefully contemplates his food. “I was turned at a young age,” he admits. “The man who bit me attacked myself and my family and left me for dead.”

Jackson finally clues into the fact that Remus isn’t being deliberately obtuse, then curses under his breath. “And when he found out you were alive?”

Remus shrugs. “I assume he never did, or if he did he didn’t care. I wasn’t the only one he did it to, but I haven’t seen him since. Very few of us have.”

“So the only other werewolves you know are omegas?”

“I… don’t know what that means.”

Instead of explaining, Jackson bluntly states, “You know nothing of werewolf culture.”

Remus doesn’t disagree, but he finds himself wondering why he’s confiding in Jackson. Jackson’s young, not much older than Harry. He ran into him in Knockturn Alley, of all places. A Knockturn Alley shopkeeper had _turned him away_ because of the color of his eyes. (He doesn’t know what that means either, not specifically. He can guess, but knows that if he starts, he’ll have to walk away.)

“My alpha was an ass,” Jackson says eventually, “but he was a responsible ass who made me learn control before I moved away.”

“And that’s – something that can be taught? Something you can learn?” Remus doesn’t dare get his hopes up, not after all these years. But.

Jackson gives him a measuring look. “I’ve never met a wolf who can do magic, but I don’t see why it should make a difference.”

Remus mentally revisits his summer plans. His new books have suddenly been shuffled to the top of his priority list. Maybe he can find out exactly what an alpha is, and how he can find one. Maybe he can find one willing to teach him _control_.

The Wolfsbane helps, but what Jackson is describing is a fairytale, the Holy Grail of werewolves everywhere.

It’s also disturbing to think that he doesn’t understand other werewolves as well as he thought he did. There might be a whole subculture he’s ignorant of because he was raised among wizards. He wonders if this is the reason that his efforts at liaising have been such a failure.

“You must know a lot about other magical creatures, having been around the extraordinary your whole life.”

The tangential subject puzzles him, but he answers anyway. “Care of Magical Creatures was a subject I excelled at in school, but I’m afraid we never covered werewolves.”

Jackson waves his hand dismissively, but the discerning gleam never quite leaves his eyes. “Perhaps I can interest you in an exchange.”

Remus’ heart thuds in his chest. “Oh?”

-

There’s a thin piece of paper – not parchment – folded up in his pocket. Written on it by the ink of a muggle pen is a telephone number.

Every few minutes, Remus reaches for it. He fingers the torn edges of the paper before he remembers himself and pulls his hand away.

But it keeps drifting back.

-

“Let’s go visit Buckbeak,” Sirius says later that evening.

Remus looks up from his book. “What?”

“The hippogriff living upstairs?”

He sighs. “Sirius, I really don’t have time for this right now.”

Sirius hauls him out of his chair. “I insist.”

“Sirius!”

“Buckbeak misses you.”

“He barely knows me.”

“He knows you well enough to miss you. You don’t want to disappoint him, do you?”

“Sirius.”

“Remus.”

By the time they’re done arguing, Remus finds himself inside the sparse room that belongs to Grimmauld’s resident hippogriff. Buckbeak is curled up in a corner, dozing in a patch of sunlight. He blinks sleepily at his visitors, raising his head perfunctorily. Remus sighs and sketches a polite bow. Buckbeak nods carefully and then rests his head back on his talons, closes his eyes and dismisses Sirius completely.

“ _What_ is this all about?” Remus demands.

“You,” Sirius says, closing the door firmly behind them. “You’ve got something on your mind Moony. What is it?”

“I – what?”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

To be honest, the thought that someone might notice that there was something weighing on his mind hadn’t occurred to him. It’s been so long since there was someone around _to_ notice. And while the Order is composed of an exemplary group of people, it isn’t necessarily the type of group that fosters friendship.

Something of his thoughts must be evident in his expression because Sirius goes from faintly teasing to steadyingly sober. “I know I spent the better part of thirteen years letting my social skills fall by the wayside, but don’t you think for a second that I ever forgot how to be your friend.”

It says something about the state of Remus’ social life that a man he’s only seen a few times in person over the past year, and then not at all for the previous thirteen, can still claim to be the one who knows him best.

“Why don’t you tell me about those books you’ve been obsessing over?”

“It’s called reading,” Remus protests half-heartedly.

Sirius gives him a look. “Remember the very first book you got permission to take from the restricted section at the library? You carried that thing around with you everywhere, didn’t hardly put it down until it was time to return it.” His eyes drift meaningfully to the book in Remus’ hand.

“What?” Remus says defensively even as he realizes he’s lost the argument. He sighs and takes out the small piece of paper he’s been using as a bookmark, hands it to Sirius.

“Is this a telephone number?” Sirius’ mouth curls upward into a mischievous grin. “Are you angsting over whether or not to accept a date from a beautiful muggle lady?”

“I got it from a werewolf actually, a werewolf I met in Knockturn Alley. And he certainly wasn’t making any romantic overtures.”

Sirius’ brow furrows thoughtfully. “Tell me everything.”

Remus does.

-

Four days later, Remus leaves Grimmauld Place to hunt down a telephone booth. He feeds the machine the necessary amount of coins and dials Jackson’s number from memory.

The phone picks up after the second ring. “Hello?”

Remus’ mouth suddenly goes dry. “Yes, Jackson Whittemore? This is Remus Lupin. We met the other day.”

“Right. The man who drinks poison.” Jackson’s voice is dry. “I remember.”

Remus pauses and clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking about that exchange you mentioned.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://anachronismsworld.tumblr.com)


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